


Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes, now

by Signe_chan



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, married in vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-18 07:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Signe_chan/pseuds/Signe_chan
Summary: Connor McDavid is twenty one and drunk in Vegas. He has a bottle of champagne in his hand and his best friend pressed against his side. Dylan is laughing at something, bright and loud, and Connor really wants to press his face into Dylan’s neck. To kiss him there, to breath him in.





	Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes, now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheapLemonIceLolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Something dumb to do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369641) by [CheapLemonIceLolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly). 



Connor McDavid is twenty one and drunk in Vegas. He has a bottle of champagne in his hand and his best friend pressed against his side. Dylan is laughing at something, bright and loud, and Connor really wants to press his face into Dylan’s neck. To kiss him there, to breath him in. 

He’s not drunk enough to actually do it, but he is drunk enough for the compulsion to do it to feel almost like a physical pain, coiling in his gut. He wants to enough to ache for it. It’s a very familiar ache, though, when it comes to Dylan. He pulls away a little, tries to push it aside, but his eyes catch on Dylan’s lips. He wishes he knew the feeling of kissing those lips. He wishes he could reach over right now and…

“Hey, Davo,” Dylan says, turning. Connor’s eyes fall back to Dylan’s neck, watch in fascination at the play of muscles under his skin. He wants to bite them. Wants to sink his teeth into skin and tendons and mark him. 

“Oh god, you’re so drunk. Davo, are you evening listening.” 

“I’m not that drunk,” Connor says, he forces his eyes away from Dylan’s neck and brings the bottle in his other hand up to his mouth as though he can prove a point by drinking more. The champagne slides down his throat and out of the corners of his mouth and Dylanis laughing at him then taking his hand, long competent fingers wrapping around Dylan’s fist and pulling, taking the bottle away from Connor’s mouth, spilling champagne between them, then pressing it to his own. 

Dylan closes his eyes as he drinks, his throat working. Champagne runs from his lips too, spilling out over his skin and everything in Connor wants to reach over and lap it up like a cat. He’s sure it’d be sweeter kissed from the crease of Dylan’s mouth. 

The bottle is gone. Dylan is saying something but Connor can’t follow it right now. Instead, he just leans into Dylan’s side. He lets his head lay on Dylan’s shoulder, almost close enough to reach out and kiss Dylan’s neck. Almost. But he won’t. They’re not like that. He needs to remember. 

“Hey,” Dylan says, his voice heavy. “I can’t see anyone. Can you see anyone?” 

Connor looks around. Nobody he knows. He shakes his head. Maybe it’s because they’re at the back of the club, pressed into the back of a small booth. His team are all here somewhere, other friends too. He’s insanely glad he can’t see them. He doesn’t want any of them, only Dylan. 

Dylan’s shifting, standing, and Connor doesn’t understand why. He stumbles to his feet too, sets his bottle down on the table. It’s empty. He doesn’t remember finishing it. 

Dylan is tugging at him, laughing, and Connor stumbles to his feet. He uses his lack of coordination as an excuse to lean in, to hook an arm around Dylan again. Dylan lets him, leaning into Connor’s side. 

“Why are we standing?” Connor asks. “We should sit down. Dylan, let’s sit down.” 

“God, you’re so drunk,” Dylan says, the words slurring. “We can’t just sit here. You’re fucking Connor McDavid! You’re twenty one! This is Vegas! We’ve got to, like, get you a lap dance or something!” 

“I don’t want a lap dance, Dyls, come on. I just want to sit down.” 

“You can’t just hide back here,” Dylan insist. He shrugs, forcing Connor to let go, and sets out. Really, Connor has no choice but to follow him, even if he doesn’t want a stripper. He might, if the stripper was Dylan. Or, honestly, any hot guy. He could really be into watching a hot guy strip with Dylan pressed up against him, hot and real and there and…

Of course, that isn’t going to happen. Dylan doesn’t know he’s into men. Nobody did. 

The cold air outside the bar has a pretty instant sobering effect. Connor stops and breathes it in, swaying in place a little. Sobering, it’s a relative term. He hasn’t actually been sober in days. 

Dylan is turning back at look at him, eyes wide, cheeks pink, lips bitten. He’s so fucking hot. He’d Connor’s best friend. He’s just the best, best at everything. Connor loves him. Loves him and can’t ever tell him and suddenly he just wants to go back into the club, to press them back together in that dark corner and have the camouflage of alcohol and noise. 

“What are we doing?” Connor asks. “Can we not… I want to go back inside.” 

“I’ve told you we’re going to find you a stripper. I’m sure I saw a place just down here.” He starts walking, Connor scrambles to follow. 

“Seriously, Dyls, I don’t want to stripper. I was fine in the bar. There was champagne.” 

“But, man, we’re in Vegas,” Dylan says, throwing out his arms and spinning around like Connor might somehow not have noticed it before. “You’re turning twenty one in Vegas. This is fucking insane. You need to do something insane. You need to, like, try every drug and fuck a prostitute or something.” 

“Seriously, Dylan, does that sound like something I’d ever do?” 

“No,” Dylan admits. He looks sheepish, at least. “That’s why I downgraded to strippers.” 

“But I don’t want a stripper.” 

“No,” Dylan agrees, shoulders sagging. He looks so defeated that, for a second, Connor is almost going to agree to go see a stripper just to get Dylan to smile. He really, really doesn’t want to, though. “Okay, then,” Dylan says, bouncing back before Connor can even get through feeling properly bad for him, as usual. “We’ve gotta think of something else stupid to do.” 

“Or we could not do something stupid. We could go back to the bar and drink.” 

Dylan isn’t listening. He’s walking again and Connor finds himself stumbling along after. Outside the bar, he’s more anonymous than he has been in years and it’s kind of nice to not feel eyes on him, to not know that everyone’s waiting for him to do something amazing or to mess up or whatever. 

Maybe he really could do something stupid here. Maybe, if he told Dylan the truth, Dylan would come and be his wingman. It was a long time since Connor had sucked a dick and he could really go for that right now. Dylan would be cool with it, probably. They had other gay friends…

The thing is, there’s only one dick he really wants in his mouth and Dylan isn’t interested. 

“Davo. Davo, listen.” 

“What?” Connor blinks. Dylan is stood right in front of him, really close. When did he get so close? He’s gripping Connor’s other arm and he’s so fucking excited, Connor wants to kiss him. 

“I’ve got it, look.” 

Connor looked. 

Dylan was pointing to a wedding chapel. It was full on Vegas. Elvis impersonators, flashing lights, people standing around outside looking like they were in the middle of making bad choices. Connor’s stomach turns. No amount of alcohol would make this a good idea. 

“Come on, Stromer. Let’s just go back. They’re probably looking for me…” 

“No, man, you’ve gotta. You’re my best friend, I can’t let you have your birthday in Vegas without doing something stupid. You’ve gotta get married.” 

“I can’t, Dyls. I just… let’s get tattoos, okay? We can get matching best friend tattoos.” 

Dylan sways a moment, obviously thinking that over, and Connor feels a surge of pride at his own quick thinking. Sure, he’s pretty sure that tomorrow morning’s sober version of himself is going to regret the hell out of getting a tattoo while drunk in Vegas but…

“No,” Dylan says, his lip curling. “No, tattoos aren’t even that big of a deal. It’s gotta be a big deal, Con. It’s gotta be the best birthday ever.” 

“We can’t,” Connor says. “I mean, who would I even…” 

“Well me, duh,” Dylan interrupts. “I mean, there’s nobody else here, right? We can be like Britney, have a twenty four hour vegas marriage just to see what it’s like.” 

“Britney?” 

“Spears, Connor. Come on, stop shitting with me. We’ve gotta get married.” 

“No. No, Dylan. We’re not doing that.” 

“What? Why?” 

“We can’t,” Dylan says. His stomach aches, suddenly, and he wishes himself back into the bar. Back into that quiet corner with Dylan pressed up against his side, warm and there and couldn’t they just go back to that? Couldn’t they just be together there like that? 

“Come on, Con. It’s not a big deal. We can…” 

“I can’t because I love you.” I small sober part of Connor’s brain is screaming at him not to do this. Not to do it here, at least. “I can’t marry you for a day, Dyls. It’ll fuck me up. I want…” 

“Dude,” Dylan says, and suddenly he’s right there, right in Connor’s face. “Me too.” 

And Connor can’t process that before Dylan’s stepping in and kissing him. Dylan’s hands are just as good on his cheeks as he thought they’d be, his mouth just as soft. He can’t stop his arms winding around Dylan, pulling him in and kissing him like this is all he’s ever wanted, because this is all he’s ever wanted. Every other kiss, every other fling, all a desperate attempt to fill the void left by the absence of this kiss. 

Dylan pulls back, he blinks for a second, and Connor pulls him back in. He holds Dylan flush against him and licks into his mouth, tries desperately to commit every nuance of it to memory, just in case he’s wrong. Just in case this never happens again. 

Then Dylan is stepping back. He’s smiling. 

“Connor,” he says, and he never uses Connor’s full first name. “Let’s get married.” 

“Yeah, let’s.” 

***

Connor wakes with the taste of something dead in his mouth, it’s probably his dignity. He groans, then pushes over onto his back. 

He can just see the clock from the corner of his eye. It’s nine. Fuck. That makes it, maybe, three hours he’s slept. He thinks he remembers seeing six. He was trying not to sleep, then. Drifting and jerking himself back into consciousness so he could feel all over again the press of Dylan against his side, the weight of Dylan in his arms, the knowledge that Dylan was his husband. That they belonged together now. 

If six had taken some of the shine from that thought, nine has tarnished it completely. They’d been idiots. Complete idiots. They can’t be married, they’re NHL stars. They have publicity to think about. Connor isn’t even out to his parents. Dylan, well, god knows. 

He hauls himself to his feet. He can hear Dylan’s voice through the door in the main living area of the suite. That means their room service is probably here. He remembers ordering it. Remembers telling the lady on the reception desk over and over that they needed a honeymoon breakfast because they’re married. Because Dylan was his husband. 

Abruptly, Connor feels sick. Why can’t he be one of those guys who doesn’t remember the bad decisions they make when they’re drunk? It’d be easier. 

He goes to the bathroom and climbs into the shower. His limbs are shaking and his stomach is turning but the pounding of the water helps somewhat. He tries not to think, tried to just breathe. 

He hears Dylan banging around. It’s hard to not want to go to him. He wants to touch Dylan, to reassure himself that some of what happened last night was real. They couldn’t stay married, that was obvious, but not all of it was made up. Maybe Dylan couldn’t be his husband but maybe he still loved him. Maybe they could still love each other. 

He uses the toilet, brushes his teeth. He thinks, for a minute, about going out there without a towel. Dylan had seen him naked hundreds of times in the locker room, but that never felt like this. He wraps a towel around himself. 

He opens the door to the bedroom. Dylan’s sat on the bed, grinning. For a second, something in his heart lightenes. For a second, he’s sure that everything’s going to be alright. 

“Man, you are not going to believe what you did last night?” 

“What?” 

“You got married.” 

“I got married?” Connor asks. I, you. Not we. Not us. What? 

“Yeah, man. I just found this ring here. I mean, I can’t remember shit but, wow, you got married.” 

Dylan sits there, his own wedding ring in his palm, grinning. And, yes, they had put it on Connor’s bedside table last night, tangled up in each other, because Dylan was complaining about the unfamiliar feel of it. Connor had liked that. Does like that. He looks down now at the ring still on his own finger. Looks back up at Dylan, wide eyes, shit eating grin on his face. Connor has no idea if this is real, if Dylan’s just pretending to let him down easy. 

Either way, he doesn’t have a lot of options. 

“No, I don’t remember anything either.”

“Well, shit,” Dylan says, looking down at the ring. He turns it in his palm, and Connor almost cracks. Almost reaches over and takes it, puts it onto Dylan’s finger. Tells him. 

“Don’t worry, bud. I’ll help you sort this out.” 

Connor says nothing. 

***

They decide, over honeymoon breakfast, that Dylan needs to get back (he shouldn’t have even been here, but Connor had been drunk and needy and he should never have made that phone call) but that Connor is going to go to the registry office and try to find out who he married. 

Dylan seems genuine, laughing at Connor’s plight, and every time he does something in Connor twists. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it still fucking hurts. He wants to grab Dylan, to shake him, to try to make him remember, to tell him every detail of it. How he’d desperately tried to call his brother to come be his best man. How they’d fought about wedding rings in a all-night pawn shop because Dylan wanted these ridiculous, flashy things. How Dylan had crooned along with the Elvis impersonator who was leading the ceremony and Connor had laughed and kissed him until he shut up because Connor just loved him so fucking much and…

Connor said nothing. It couldn’t do any good. Neither of them were out, even to each other technically. Dylan might have only been kissing him back out of drunken pitty and, even if he wasn’t, there’s no way. Connor is already too many things, he can’t be gay too. 

He can’t be the first. 

He says nothing and Dylan leaves. 

He goes to the registry office, though he knows who he married. He gets a copy of their license anyway, he’ll need it for the divorce. Then he finds a quiet place, props his suitcase at his feet, and calls his lawyer. 

“Hello,” she answers, crisp and efficient. “This is Carol Freeman.” 

“Hi,” Connor says, his throat dry. “Um, I’m sorry, this is Connor. Connor McDavid.” 

“I know, Mr McDavid,” she says, and there’s something long-suffering in her tone. “How can I help you today?” 

“I… I did something stupid. I need some help.” 

“Well, that’s what I’m here for.” Her tone softens a little. She’s been his lawyer for a long time and he wouldn't say they’re close but he’d say she knows him well enough to know that this kind of call is unusual for him. “It’s okay, we can sort whatever it is out. Just tell me as much as you can.” 

“I don’t… I got married last night. In Vegas.” 

She sighs. He hates himself. 

“Mr McDavid…” 

“I won’t… it won’t be a problem. I just want to know, is there any way I can get it annulled or whatever without the other person knowing?” 

“Mr McDavid, if you don’t know who you married…” 

“No, I do. I just… I don’t want them to know. Please.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sorry, Mr McDavid.” 

Connor sighs. “Yeah. I thought as much. I’ll… I’ll call him and then I’ll get back to you. But we’re going to need an annulment.” 

“I’ll look into it,” she says, her tone kind now. It reminds him of why he took her on. Very good at her job, but capable of being understanding too. “Take care of yourself, Mr McDavid. Phone me for anything, any time. This is my personal number, I’ll answer.” 

“I, thanks. I just need… I need to go.” 

“Yes,” she agrees. “Good luck.” 

***

He has to leave a message for Dylan, who’s still in the air. He gets the callback when he’s waiting in the airport. 

He takes a second to take a deep breath and focus before he answers, like he might before a big game. This isn’t the same thing, not really, but the familiarity of the routine settles his nerves and makes it easier to connect the call. 

“Hello,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. He hasn’t figured out how he’s going to say this yet, just that he has to. 

“It was me.” Dylan sounds nothing like he did that morning. He sounds ruined. 

“I’m sorry, Dyls.” 

“I remembered in the air. I mean, not much, but I remember kissing you. Connor, we made out in the street. People could have photos.” 

A stone settles in Connor’s stomach. He hadn’t even thought of that. God, if he gets outed… 

If he gets outed, he’ll cope. Maybe he’ll make less money, be traded, but he’ll still be generational talent Connor McDavid. Dylan’s barely clinging to the NHL. He’ll make it, Connor knows he will, he’s good. He’s getting better all the time. But this… 

“Is there anything on the net already?” 

“Not that I can find.” 

“We might be okay, then. Vegas is still a new hockey market, and there were a lot more important people walking around than us.” 

“Connor.” 

“Don’t borrow trouble, Dylan. We’ll be okay. We’ll cope with that when we have to, if we have to. Until then…” 

“We need a divorce.” 

“Yeah,” Connor breaths. Somehow, it’s worse to hear Dylan say it. More final. “We do. I spoke to my lawyer, she seems to think it’ll be easy. I think we can keep it quiet. I mean, even if it does get out…” 

“We play it as drunken bros being stupid,” Dylan finishes. “Drunken bros in the NHL have done worse.” 

“Exactly,” Connor says and hates himself. 

“Look, I’ve got to go. I just… let me know what the lawyer says, okay. When you know what I have to sign. There won’t be any trouble. Just… just call me, okay.” 

“Yeah, Dyls, I’ll let you know.” 

And Dylan hangs up. 

Connor sits there for a few minutes, the phone cradled in his hand. He stares down at it. 

Nothing. They’re going to be just friends again. Dylan kissed him last night, held him and whispered that he loved him and all of that meant nothing. Connor feels himself folding over, like he can physically stop the ripping inside himself by pressing in on it. He can’t. He can’t just be nothing to Dylan. Can’t just be friends. Can’t know what it’s like to be allowed to love Dylan then lose it all. 

But what else can he do? 

He looks down at his phone. 

Dylan agreed. Dylan said he’d sign what he had to. He hadn’t protested but, then, neither had Connor. 

If he let this go, if he went up to Edmonton, would he ever be this close again? They’d see each other and laugh awkwardly. Would they even be friends? Would the weight of the secret between then tear them apart? 

He couldn’t cope with that. 

He wasn’t thinking straight, he knew it. He needed to go home and hydrate and rest. Then he’d see Dylan when they next played the Coyotes, if Dylan didn’t get sent down again. Then he’d see him sometime. 

Then it might be too late. 

He glances at the boards, then stands. He needs to book a plane ticket. 

***

Connor knocks on the door, then waits. There’s noise inside, someone’s home at least. He just has to hope it’s Dylan. He keeps turning his ring on his fingers, can’t bring himself to take it off. The door cracks, he holds his breath. 

It isn’t Dylan, it’s Nick. He stands there for a second and blinks, like he isn’t sure that he’s really seeing Connor. Then he chuckles, shakes his head. 

“I take it you’re here to see Dylan.” 

“I… yeah.” 

“Figured.” He pulls the door open further and Connor pulls his suitcase in. “This about whatever you got up to in Vegas? Stromer won’t talk about it but we all know something’s up.” 

“Kind of,” Connor says, shrugging and smiling in a way that seems to always get described as sheepish. “Can I just...?” 

“I’ll get him for you,” Nick says and, right. Of course. Connor parks his suitcase and sticks his hands in his pockets. Dylan’s ring is in there. He didn’t know what else to do with it other than bring it. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this, to be honest. There are voices on the stairs, Connor looks up and Dylan is watching him. 

He looks as gorgeous as he did in Vegas. Long and strong and Connor’s. Connor’s best friend, his confidant, his everything. He can not fuck this up. 

“Hey,” Dylan says, shoulders slumping and smiling like nothing unusual has happened between them. “Wasn’t expecting to see you for a while, Davo. Haven’t you got better things to do than come pester me.” 

“Nah,” Connor says, glancing at Nick, lurking behind Dylan on the stairs. “I had to come in person to make sure your face is as ugly as I remember. I thought maybe it was just the alcohol…” 

“Nice,” Dylan says, flashing a smile. “You want to come up or we can go grab a pizza…” Connor very much does not want to grab a pizza. He needs Dylan alone. 

“I’ll come up, if that’s okay.” 

Dylan nods. There are an awkward few moments where they all negotiate each other on the stairs then Connor and Dylan are in a room, the door closed behind them. More specifically, of course, Connor and Dylan are in Dylan’s bedroom. The bed seems to loom and Connor starts to wonder if maybe the pizza place would have been better, only he knows that, if he did give in and go there, they wouldn’t have talked. 

He moves over and perches on the edge of the bed. Dylan is hovering by the door, fidgeting with his hands. 

This should be easy. Things between then are always easy. Someone makes a joke or shoves someone in the shoulder and they fight, mess around, laugh. 

Connor’s hand goes to his pocket, finds the ring. He takes it out, weighing it in his palm for a second before holding it out to Dylan like an offering. There’s an awkward second, his hand outstretched in the space between them, before Dylan steps forward and takes the ring. 

“Hey,” he says, “I hope you didn’t come all this way just to give me this.” 

Connor laughs hollowly. “No, not just that. I just… I need to know we’re cool.” 

“Davo, of course we’re cool. Have we ever not been cool?” 

“No,” Connor says. “But we’ve never been married before. I just wanted to check. I just wanted to know…” 

“Hey, it’s fine. It’s not like… I mean, it was just a joke, right? We were just messing around.” 

This is the part, Connor knows, where he laughs. Where he says that, yes, of course they were. Where they’re normal again and they joke about what idiots they were and Dylan elbows him. They fight a little. Connor stores away every stray touch and pretends that those and the echoes of Dylan’s drunken kisses are enough to carry him through the rest of his life. 

“I wasn’t.” 

“Connor?” 

“I… I maybe let you believe I remember less than I do,” Connor admits, flushing a little. “I remember marrying you. It wasn’t messing around, not to me.” 

“Okay,” Dylan says. He moves, coming to sit beside Connor on the bed, their shoulders close enough to brush. Connor forces his eyes closed, his attention to his breath. He can’t freak out, not now. He has to keep it together. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean to me, I did it because I like you. Like that.” 

“Like you want to be married to me?” 

“Not right now. We’re too young. But… maybe. In a few years. I want to be in your life, Dylan, any way you’ll have me. If that’s as a friend, I’m okay with that. If you can give me more, if you’ll let me give you more…” 

“Jesus, Connor, this is a lot,” Dylan says. Connor risks a glance over and Dylan’s hands are in his lap, the ring in his fingers. Connor kind of wishes he’ll slip it on so he can see it, just once, while sober and fully paying attention. 

“I know. I didn’t want to dump it on you but…” 

“I didn’t even know you were gay.” 

“Well, you didn’t exactly tell me you were gay either.” 

“Bi. I’m bi. I mean, I always just figured that it’ll easy, right? I’ll just date girls and that’s fine.” 

Connor’s heart sinks. “I mean, yeah. I’m gay, I can’t do that. Or I could but I’d be lying to everyone. I mean, I’m not going to come out or anything, I’m not even out to my parents but…” 

“Jesus,” Dylan hisses, and he reaches out to grip Connor’s hand. Connor turns his hand, interlacing their fingers. He wants this. Wants it so much, he’d risk everything. His family, the NHL. He knows it’s too soon but he’d marry Dylan again today if he thought he could. He’d marry him every day. 

“Look, nothing has to change.” 

“No, it does,” Dylan says, and he sounds sure about that at least. “I mean, I was going to just have girlfriends and maybe that makes sense but now I just… I really like you too, Connor.” 

Connor feels his fingers clench, Dylan’s hand pressed closer in his. Dylan likes him too. 

“I just don’t know what to do with that,” Dylan is saying. “Like, how would this even work? Do we hide from everyone or do we just come out to some people because I’m going to want to tell my family but definitely not the press, I can’t deal with that shit, but maybe I could if we did it together and I don’t even know, we’ve got the season and we hardly ever see each other but I feel like it’ll be kind of worth it anyway like…” 

“Dyls,” Connor interrupts, squeezing his fingers. “Can I kiss you?” 

Dylan blinks. “Oh, yeah. Yes, you can.” 

Connor does. 

He means to be slow, to be tender. It starts that way. Gentle, loving. A caress of lips. They sigh against each other, pull closer, hands and lips exploring and then somehow Dylan is straddling Connor’s hips, his hand under Connor’s shirt, and Connor is falling back into the sheets, pulling Dylan up and over him so Dylan is all around him, all he can hear and see and feel. Dylan. 

He loses track of all time, but when Dylan pulls back they’ve been kissing long enough that there’s no disguising what they were doing. His hair’s a mess, his lips slightly swollen, his eyes wide. Connor wants to topple him over into the sheets. To touch him everywhere. To get rid of their clothes and have him completely. 

Dylan sighs and rolls to the side, flopping out on the bed beside Connor. Connor reaches over to tangle their fingers together. 

Dylan looks back at him, smiles. He raises their clasped hands and, of course, it’s the one with the wedding ring on. He reaches out his other hand to touch it, gently. 

“You know we need to get a divorce,” Dylan says.

“Yeah, I know.” 

“I mean, I’m not saying never but… there are, like, so many steps we’ve missed out. I want to date you. I want to take things slowly. Be serious.” 

“I want that too,” Connor says. 

“Good,” Dylan smiles, and Connor’s helpless to do anything but lean in and kiss him again. 

***

Connor keeps the ring. It sits on a chain around his neck, a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to cheaplemonicelolly for leaving such a great fic for me to remix. There was a slight problem in that I enjoyed the original so much I didn't want to change it. I hope this remix doesn't dissapoint.


End file.
